Interlude
by the evil mumu-san
Summary: Quiet interludes between Raistlin and various Dragonlance characters. Some angst, some humor and some fluff pieces. Rated R for slight twincest, slash and other stuff. CHAPTER 8 UP!
1. Default Chapter

A/N: Okay, no clue why I'm writing this as I don't even like twincest/incest themes, but I couldn't get this idea out of my head. Oh well, I guess I'm striking back on the behalf of canon at all those Raistlin/OC fics out there :P Mild twincest theme, nothing strong; inspired by the devotion and affection Caramon shows his brother and the idea that perhaps that feeling could get taken just a bit further. Yeah, yeah, sometimes brotherly love is just brotherly love, work with me on this, m'kay? Special Thanks to: Inka Lakhala, my shiny new beta!   
  
Interlude  
  
The dingy inn room was quiet; the only sounds those of the logs snapping in the fireplace and the occasional whisper of a page being turned. Spinning his blade expertly in one hand, Caramon continued the slow, soothing ritual of polishing his armour.  
  
Sitting on the other side of the room, still except for the occasional motion of turning a page and the rapid, feverish movement of his eyes, sat Raistlin; the crimson clothed man huddled as close to the hearth as he could get.  
  
It had been silent like this for the past three hours. Several times in the first hour Caramon had attempted to start a conversation, only to be glared into silence by his twin. Now he regarded his brother, thin form huddled over the book, eyes glowing oddly in the firelight, hourglass shaped pupils staring with rapt attention at the rune-covered page before him, with a detached awe.  
  
Suddenly the silence was broken by the wheeze of coughing as the young mage doubled over, reaching with one hand desperately into his pockets while the other held tightly to his spell-book. Dropping his sword hurriedly, Caramon rushed to his brother's side, falling to one knee.  
  
"Raist, Raist, you alright?"  
  
His brother looked up just enough to glare at him, and managed to croak, "Tea," through the painful spasms that wracked his form. Fumbling for the pouch that held the precious herbs Caramon quickly poured them into a large earthenware mug, adding steaming water and handing both to his brother, who was at that point clutching a bloodied handkerchief to his mouth, one hand still desperately holding the spell-book. Accepting the mug and briefly inhaling the steam before drinking deeply, Raistlin closed his eyes, for a moment shuttering the cold, soulless mirrors from the rest of the world. His cough abating, Raistlin's eyes fluttered open again, and looking up questioningly at Caramon, he continued to sip the liquid slowly.  
  
Finding the two hourglasses fixed once more on his face, Caramon shifted uneasily, knowing his brother could not see him as he was, but as if he walked always in death. Close your eyes. More than anything Raistlin had lost during his Test, Caramon missed Raistlin's eyes. They had never had the openness of his own, but occasionally they had shone with something Caramon was sure had been warmth, or as close as his twin got to the feeling. Now the reflective surfaces only shone with the light of the fire from the hearth. Don't look at me, close your eyes.  
  
Leaning down on impulse, Caramon brushed his lips against those of his twin, hardly realizing he had done so until he felt his brother gasp slightly and pull away.  
  
"Caramon?" There was confusion in his brother's voice, and slight fear, two emotions Raistlin so rarely showed, and this time it was Caramon who silenced his brother, kissing him again softly, but more insistently. Close your eyes. Don't see me. Feel me. Raistlin tasted of the bitter herbs from the tea, and more faintly of blood. The combination was slightly abrasive, but appropriate, and not altogether unpleasant. He went slightly limp below Caramon, eyes finally fluttering closed, spell-book dropping forgotten to the floor, breath hitching in his throat - which turned out not to be such a good thing, as another spasm rocked his body and he turned abruptly away, hacking into the handkerchief and turning his attentions once more to the tea. Blushing a violent red to match his brother's robes, Caramon looked away.  
  
"Sorry, Raistlin. I didn't-"  
  
Slim gold tinged fingers briefly entwined with large tanned ones and Caramon fell silent.  
  
"Thank you, my brother."  
  
Raistlin's expression was inscrutable. Smiling slightly, Caramon stood and began to walk back to his armour across the room.  
  
"Caramon."  
  
With a hopeful expression Caramon turned to face his brother.  
  
"My book-" 


	2. Between a Rock and a Hard Solamnic

Disclaimer: I own nothing and am making no money.  
  
A/N:(Ha ha! Get it? A hard Solamnic knight. wink, wink, nudge, nudge Aren't I the cleverest! Sorry, excuse the terrible puns.) Woot! A Raistlin/Sturm! Bet you haven't seen this pairing before (if you have then shut up, I want to feel special). This is written at around the time Kitiara and Tanis were first together and in Solace (so it's pre-test, teenage Raistlin). I made Sturm a little less dignified than usual because this is an inner monologue and I imagine he would be a bit less starchy and noble in his own head. A very silly piece of fluff to counter the first story. If anyone is curious I have two short Raistlin/Dalamar bits that are in the works right now. I'll put them up soon. Special Thanks to: Inka Lakhala, beta and fellow Raistlin fan.   
  
Interlude "chapter" 2: Between a Rock and a Hard Solamnic Knight  
  
Raistlin Majere is possibly the most troublesome individual I have ever met. He is rude, mean-spirited and severely lacking in anything resembling manners or honor. In fact, he lacks genteel characteristics altogether. I'd mention that he's a mage but, after the above description, the fact is clearly redundant. Social delinquency seems to breed fireball-throwing freaks. Not that Majere will ever be a strong enough to create a fireball, as he is weak and annoying. Still, even if he wasn't of the magical persuasion, I should think I would dislike him. Good thing I'm not the only one. No one likes him, except his brother, of course, a nice person, if a bit slow on occasion. How the two are twins, I do not know; they do not look or act anything alike.  
  
And that's another thing - Caramon is reliable. If I was in a fight I would most definitely want him at my back; I could assuredly count on him. But his brother is just the opposite. The only thing one can predict about Raistlin Majere is that he will be unpredictable. That, and rude and a thorn in everyone's side, I suppose, which is why I dislike him so strongly. His unpredictable attitude and constant sarcasm aren't exciting or interesting either, they are terrible. Really. Yes, Rastlin is a horrible, terrible person.  
  
He's not even a proper-looking young man. He's so thin and full of angles. Which, in case you were wondering, doesn't make him look attractive, give him character, or (Huma forbid!) pretty, in an odd, unconventional and wistful sense, but, frankly, if you were wondering about any of that, then I don't think I want to associate with you, as I don't stand for people who wonder about mages. And, while we are on the subject of things Raistlin Majere is not - his eyes don't cloud over in a way that makes one long to know just what he's thinking and seeing, and even if one did want to know, one would probably just be checking to make sure he didn't have designs on one, as he is a sneaky, untrustworthy individual. And his hair is most definitely a plain brown and it doesn't take on any sort of attractive auburn sheen in sunlight, which you ought to know, because I'd hate for you to get the mistaken impression that it did.  
  
And right now he keeps smirking at me. He won't stop. It is annoying. He knows he is making me uncomfortable, and is doing it doubtless for his own twisted pleasure. Stupid, annoying mage.  
  
WHAT! WHY WON'T HE STOP! IS THERE SOMETHING ON MY FACE! I DON'T GET IT!  
  
Naturally, I can't say anything to him, as his brother is sitting right next to him, doting on him, and will jump to his defense, and then I'll end up either picking a fight with a friend or backing away from a fight, neither of which an honorable man can do. Of course, if I am not saying anything, because if I do I will have to avoid a fight, then I suppose I am technically avoiding avoiding a fight, which sounds dishonorable as well. Bother.  
  
Besides, I refuse to give that sneak of a mage the satisfaction of knowing he's getting to me. Not that he is, mind you.  
  
STOP STARING YOU ANNOYING LITTLE - err - ANNOYANCE!  
  
Oh. His brother is stepping outside with Flint and the kender for a bit. They're telling us they'll be back shortly.  
  
Ha! Raistlin doesn't look so smug now.  
  
I would never actually fight him, of course. He's much weaker than I am and there would be [now] {no} glory in it.  
  
But maybe I'll intimidate him just a bit. It's not like he doesn't deserve it. I should teach him to show a bit more respect towards Solamnics, especially future knights like me.  
  
Yes, that's a good plan. Definitely.  
  
Hah! How will he like it when people tower over him and act domineering? I bet he's not so brave when someone invades his personal space and his brother isn't around, cowardly, lowlife mage that he is. I'm going to go after him right now.  
  
Well.  
  
That was unexpected.  
  
Not that I meant anything by it really.  
  
I was just throwing him off.  
  
You see, I pushed him against the wall and kissed him to teach him a lesson, which makes perfect sense; there's nothing strange about it.  
  
I didn't want to do it, you must understand, but I am (or I'm going to be) a brave and honorable Solamnic Knight, so I did what I had to do.  
  
I am just that noble.  
  
It had absolutely nothing to do with the sunlight streaming through the window and highlighting his hair and cheekbones, or the way his eyes flashed when he looked up at me.  
  
I can't believe anyone would even consider that it was. I was using pure cunning right there. Beating him at his own game. Yes. Victory is mine.  
  
Everyone is back now. Whenever I look over at Raistlin he blushes and looks away.  
  
Ha. I sure taught him a lesson.  
  
Uh-huh, that's right.  
  
I'm in such deep touble. 


	3. Dark Elf I: The Art in Him

A/N: Hmmm. Not sure I like this chapter as much as I like the others makes face. I hope it's not too melodramatic. I've been playing with it for a while and finally decided, what the hell, I'd toss it up here. A Raistlin/Dalamar, one of two Dalamar POV pieces I have planned (to the extent I plan this thing anyway ;) Wow! Such great reviews. Thanks to everyone who has given me input - you guys keep me going. Special thanks to "Ebony Moonlight" who has added me to her favorites list (I have no clue how I made it on ;) - I really appreciate the gesture and hope I continue to deserve the honor.  
  
Special thanks to: Inka Lakhala, my darling beta.  
  
Interlude "chapter" 3: Dark Elf I - The Art in Him  
  
I think I am the first of my kind to be bested by a human at an art. My race is known for its skill with all things creative. We have the sweetest voices, the purest fabrics, the most delicately constructed and carefully painted canvasses. We live in great glorious statues that pay homage to nature and the earth, and humans envy us, as they should.  
  
At least, most of us live in such places. I did once, and its memory still haunts me; I still long for the beauty that my people created. So you would think that no human could match me, that if I put my mind to creating something great, something beautiful, no human could hope to ever match my talents.  
  
But he does. He matches me, matches me and so much more. His art is greater than any other's, greater than my own. He creates darkness and secrets with far more skill than any artist I've known could create color or beauty. He bends his darkness into a twisted swirling poetry that no wordsmith could hope to achieve, not even given eternity, for his creations are greater than any words, any picture. He creates a beauty that transcends that which can be captured or described. He has such exquisiteness in him, such pure sculpture in his own frame, that the curve of an arm, or the fold of black upon black that shrouds his form, become art, and from his form, his magic, his talent, pours forth to become things so pure, so perfect in their cruelty and their kindness, that they transcend art, and they defy my understanding. When I watch him work I find myself lost to any comprehension, marvelling, not at what I know, but simply at what is.  
  
Sometimes I become so jealous of him that it chokes me. Why him; why could it not be me who understood and created such great beauty? I have given up everything I have held dear for my magic, yet I fall short, second best, to him.  
  
Why is he so favored?  
  
Sometimes I want so badly for him to take me and weave me into one of his creations. Under his hands I know I could become something great and beautiful, something more than I am now. Maybe if he used me I would understand all that he is and all that he does. If I cannot create art in magic the way he does then maybe I could be it.  
  
And sometimes, sometimes all I want is for him to look away from the beautiful abyss he creates, and look at me.  
  
And of all things I might wish, I know that this will be the least likely to happen.  
  
And sometimes this makes me cry. 


	4. Fangirl Service: Nyow sayeth the Elf

Prologue (or a/n, if you want to be picky about it, read it anyway): This little story has an, err, story behind it: I just got my third chapter edits for my other story (the trouble with you) back, and found it depressingly full of errors. Almost simultaneously I received a review from Miyu saying that her little fangirl heart cried out for more smutty-ness in future "Interlude" chapters. In an effort to make myself feel better and to oblige her request I scrawled out this completely useless piece of fluff. Forgive me for its contrived plot and lack of anything resembling characterization.  
  
Special Thanks to: Inka Lakhala, without her I'd be comma-less  
  
Raistlin/Dalamar in: "Fangirl Service" or "Nyaow Sayeth the Elf". A fanfic of epic stupidity.  
  
Of all the words in the world, none is more dreaded by master mages than "Oops". Every master knows he will hear it at least once from his apprentice, and every master steels himself for that dreary, terrible day when that one feared word escapes his apprentice's lips (incidentally, the most feared sentence among master mages is: "Sorry sir, but I think I accidentally locked a large angry mutant squirrel in your quarters." But that is another tale for another day.)  
  
Raistlin Majere was a master among masters, and as such he had first choice amongst apprentices. One of those apprentices was so bright, so gifted, that the cursed word "Oops" never escaped his shapely lips ("Gah!" and "That looked expensive," but never "Oops."), but Raistlin, wise man that he was, knew that one day, one day soon, his perfect apprentice would fail. This is an account of that day:  
  
Raistlin froze as he heard the sound. Had Dalamar just- Yes! He had unmistakably said "Oops". Oh dear.  
  
Diving beneath the worktable, the mage was able to avoid the subsequent explosion, and, as the small fires subsided and debris stopped falling from the ceiling, handkerchief over mouth, he made his way through the thick, soot-like fog that filled the room, only to nearly trip over the unconscious form of his- Dear gods, what was that on the elf's head?  
  
Dalamar awoke feeling slightly woozy. And wheezy, for that matter. He immediately began coughing and attempted to cover his mouth with his hand, only to find that he was quite neatly tied with what looked like some sort of magical bonds, to what looked like a bedpost. Quickly abandoning coughing in favor of figuring out why he was tied up, and how he might get down, Dalamar looked around him.  
  
Taking stock of the surrounding room, Dalamar confirmed that, yes, it was bedposts he was tied to, arms and legs tied at each corner forcing him into a spread eagle. Upon taking even further stock of his surroundings (you can never have too much stock you know, especially when you are tied up, or making soup), Dalamar found himself under scrutiny. Raistlin Majere was looking impassively down at him from a comfortable-looking leather chair across the room. He must have seen the question in his apprentice's eyes, because he spoke before Dalamar could open his mouth (either that, or he just assumed that Dalamar would want to know why he was tied to a bed in a strange room, - Raistlin was perceptive that way.).  
  
"You are in my private quarters. You are tied to the bed because you were experimenting with a dangerous spell involving animal demons and I want to be sure that all damage done to you was purely skin-deep. I also need to confirm that you are not possessed and/or dangerous." This explanation helped a little, but Dalamar was still a bit confused.  
  
"Damage?"  
  
With a languid wave of his hand Raistlin produced a full-length mirror. Dalamar stared at his familiar visage. His features were as he remembered them, and his hair was still black and seemed the right length and shape, nothing was green that shouldn't be, and his ears were-  
  
Wait.  
  
His attractive, elegantly pointed ears were no longer anywhere to be found. Turning his head side to side with an air of desperation Dalamar tried to determine just where they had gone. And then he caught sight of the top of his head. Two pointed black ears, like those of the housecats Dalamar had occasionally seen fashionable city-dwellers keep, peeked out from underneath his hair. Yelping slightly, Dalamar tried desperately to reach his head, but was prevented by the ropes tying him down. The resulting struggle moved the bed several inches to the right, but did nothing to loosen Dalamar's bonds.  
  
Dalamar looked helplessly at Raistlin, who was regarding him with a decidedly amused expression.  
  
"Wait until you see the tail".  
  
The resulting thumping and screams had the other apprentices working on the floors below chuckling and giving each other knowing looks.  
  
After Dalamar had been sufficiently calmed (no small task), Raistlin explained why he could not untie him, no matter how much he wanted to go to his room and hide in his wardrobe, possibly never to see the light of day again.  
  
"I think I can undo this particular mistake. Something similar happened to me in my youth. However, I will need to examine you, and, as I stated before, I will keep you tied up until I am able to ensure that no residual element of the cat-demon is in you." Dalamar nodded mutely and submitted quietly to his Shalafi's gentle touch [on] as the master mage examined his new cranial accessories, making the occasional note in what looked like a spell book. Raistlin would often ask Dalamar how something felt and Dalamar would answer, mostly, with, "It tickles," and occasionally with, "Ooh, scratch there, please." Raistlin mutely complied.  
  
Satisfied with the examination, and with the fact that Dalamar wasn't, in fact, going to attempt to eat him, pillage and/or rampage anytime in the near future, Raistlin undid the magic binding Dalamar to the bedposts and asked him to lie on his stomach and remove his robes to just below his waist, so that his new appendage could be examined as well. Dalamar complied and lay down, accidentally twitching his tail in a manner which made it rather hard to catch, so when Raistlin did catch it, it was with rather more force than Dalamar felt might be necessary.  
  
Crying out and attempting to curl into fetal position, Dalamar made it known that he did not like having his tail pulled one bitty bit. Raistlin made note of this in his book and continued to examine the tail once his apprentice's tremors had subsided. Dalamar's tail, it turned out, was quite sensitive, and Raistlin could produce wildly different physical reactions, from violent pain to tickling to mild itchiness; but this story is mostly concerned with what happened when he petted the fur of the tail against its natural direction.  
  
As soon as Raistlin Majere petted the tail in the aforementioned direction, his apprentice arched almost completely off the bed, letting out a cat-like yowl. Assuming that this meant more pain, Raistlin turned to make note of the reaction in his spell book. He was most surprised when he was tackled rather roughly by said apprentice and kissed to within an inch of his life. When the two finally parted to come up for air, Raistlin was both too dazed and lacking of breath to note that he probably hadn't hurt Dalamar that time. As Dalamar began to kiss along his neck and collarbone he realized he didn't really care. Was that his tongue? Ooh, yes, that was his tongue. How did he do that nice little roll-y thing- Ahh, never-mind, as long as he didn't stop, it didn't matter. Ooh, yes, just like that.  
  
The planned activity for the day had been "Calling on Animal Demons". It was postponed in favor of "Learning About Cat-Elf Anatomy and Flexibility".  
  
Neither master nor apprentice regretted it.  
  
The bed ended up nearly on the opposite end of the room.  
  
Raistlin later reflected that his apprentice had had the most fortunate "Oops" ever. 


	5. Raistlin POV: Break Him Mine

It's been a while hasn't it? Well I'm back and, fortunately I am not dead or quitting with this. Just out of curiosity, are there any heterosexual relationships, romantic or otherwise anyone would like to see? I'm experimenting and am open to suggestions.  
  
I'm dedicating this chapter to Ninjette, because she was my most recent reviewer when I wrote this and told me to get my butt in gear to write more. I like recent reviewers hint hint.  
  
Oh, one more thing, this does coincide with "The Art in Him." I was playing with the idea of Raistlin having an ulterior motive for giving Dalamar the five gaping chest wounds, and wanted to explore the idea of them having a great, angsty and misunderstood romance. I don't really like how it turned out, but ah well.  
  
On with the show.  
  
Special Thanks to: Inka Lakhala, grammar falls from her lips like spittle falls from the lips of my dog – in great streams  
  
Ficlet Five: "Mine"  
  
Working alongside him daily has become difficult. I am attached, it threatens my ambitions. Standing next to him, it becomes difficult to classify him in relation to myself. I know that we are no longer just master and apprentice, whatever titles he might call me by. He knows too, - I can tell in the way he turns his head, and in the shape of his eyes when he looks at me, that there is something else there. But we do not speak unless it is necessary to our task; we do not socialize, so how can I consider this tie between him and myself a friendship? He offers companionship unconsciously, but he cannot be called a "companion". A lover, then? This feels more correct, but there is no love and there is no sex between us. How, then, is he a lover? Why does he seem so?  
  
My world is words, and I have none for what he is to me.  
  
In the brush of fingers, the passing of components, it is there. That thing which makes him beyond what I can describe. I wonder if I touched him more, everywhere, how it would feel. Would I understand then; when his clothes and composure were stripped away, would I find the definition I was looking for? Would destroying him be worth finding it?  
  
The smells of sweat and stains of herbs on my skin are so familiar, but what would they be on his? I imagine mapping them with my hands and tongue [like] {as if} they were tangible and permanent. I wonder if he has scars, and how many of them are the ones I gave him. I wonder at the strange flash of emotion in my chest, how it makes me want him to bear only my scars, have only me inside and around and over. What it would be like to creep so deep inside what he was, what he is, that I never really left him. No matter what he claims to feel about darkness he is of a pure race, and his light is innate. If I could claim him, could I make his light mine as well? A novel idea, I have never been a pure thing.  
  
I see the light in his eyes that I can't command. I'll teach him, but he will never be of my caliber, and what when he cannot go on, cannot learn more? How will I get into him then? He must not leave until I know the words, the key to what he is to me.  
  
But I can't find them and I don't know how to get further inside him than skin deep. So instead I'll give him something from me that he'll never forget. The very least thing I can do.  
  
I'll give him scars to remember. 


	6. By a Thread

Another chapter up? Why yes! The promised ficlet has been produced, and I even neglected my other long-term fic-fic to do it. Why? Because I love you people, that's why. Sturm/Rastlin has somehow become my main ship, so there we go, but I'll try to change things up a bit. Oh, one more thing, this does coincide with "Between a Rock and a Hard Solamnic."  
  
Right. Fic now.  
  
Special Thanks to: Inka Lakhala, she's teh kewlies  
  
By a Thread  
  
This, Rastlin reflected, was exactly why you didn't hang about Solamnic knights whilst doing Delicate or Important Things. They managed to mislead your friends and idiotic family members, send everyone off and then leave you in a helpless position.  
  
"Brightblade, please untie me." Raistlin said, doing his best to imitate the pleasing dulcet tones his sister had used when they were younger to talk her way out of trouble.  
  
Apparently he either failed, or the boy-who-would-be-knight was immune to such entreaty; the response was a curt,  
  
"No."  
  
Kitiara never had been useful for anything, anyway.  
  
Raistlin really had very little control over his temper. Years with Caramon, who would take any verbal assault with a smile, had left him with no need to check his tongue so, when displeased, Raistlin abruptly found he could go from pleading to abusive quite abruptly.  
  
"You staggeringly idiotic plebian, you and I both know that I am in no way, shape or form possessed by anything but the desire to immolate you and your pretensions. I swear there will be nothing but a smear of your smirking visage if you do not desist and untie me immediately."  
  
Raistlin paused for breath and then groaned internally. One did not, as a rule, insult and then threaten the life of the one person who held the power to untie you or leave you to freeze on a big ugly tree.  
  
Apparently, approximately the same thoughts were running through the Solamnic in question's head, as he gave Raistlin a more pronounced smirk. Raistlin felt this was deeply unfair. He had always been under the impression that if you meant to smirk, sneer or snarl (any of the "s" expressions, really) at someone, you had to be evil. Brightblade was playing it both ways, and it was cheap.  
  
"Majere, is your mouth connected to your brain at all?"  
  
Good question. Raistlin, not trusting his brain or his mouth in this particular situation, settled on glaring and seething silently.  
  
Brightblade smiled and then did something even less noble. He began to gloat. (You couldn't glare, gloat or grimace unless you were slightly evil either. None of the "s" or "g" expressions, Raistlin decided. If you were good and you did then you were cheating.)  
  
"So you see, Majere, my plan worked perfectly. You are now helpless at my mercy, and no-one will miss you for at least another hour."  
  
Raistlin narrowed his eyes and hissed. "You'll never get away with this."  
  
Sturm tossed his head back and laughed madly. He managed to choke out, "Don't you see, foolish mage, I already have!" in between snorts. Moments like these made life worth living.  
  
Raistlin decided his best option was to stall. "What do you plan to do with me, then?"  
  
Strum stopped cackling and abruptly blushed a rather violent red. "Er, well, you see- Do you remember the last time we were, a-alone?"  
  
Raistlin blushed too. "Of course I do," he hissed. Then, with an expression of dawning alarm, "You're not going to, er, you know, again?"  
  
Sturm turned an even more violent red. "Certainly not! I just wanted to be sure that you understood that I was - teaching you a lesson last time. I'm not like, ah, 'that'."  
  
Raistlin blinked. "You mean to say that you convinced everyone that a light spell was, in fact, the sign of demonic possession, sent my brother away and tied me to a tree just to tell me that you didn't mean anything by kissing me?"  
  
Sturm nodded. "Yes, that's pretty much it."  
  
"You couldn't have just taken me aside?"  
  
Sturm shuffled his feet and looked mildly sheepish. "I do suppose I could have just done that. Now that you mention it."  
  
Raistlin took a deep calming breath, trying to continue to keep his cool. Sturm still could leave him hanging (quite literally), if he upset him enough.  
  
"Do you want to untie me now, Brightblade?"  
  
Strum seemed to deflate. "Yeah, okay." This had ended up being a good bit more anti-climatic than he had expected somehow.  
  
Grabbing a knife from his belt, he went to work on the tight ropes binding Raistlin, who squirmed uncomfortably in his bonds. After almost taking off a finger for the third time, Sturm snapped his head up and glared at Raistlin.  
  
"Would you stop mov-" The mage's face was a lot closer to his own than he had expected. And Majere was worrying his thin lower lip, making it look slicker, redder and fuller than usual. "Oh," Rastlin said faintly, blushing rather prettily.  
  
"Er," said Sturm. And then he promptly gave up.  
  
He leaned in slightly, putting his weight on the body under him. Majere gasped slightly and Sturm pressed his lips against the soft, wet ones of the tied-up mage. Raistlin made a little "ah" sound and moved forward, parting his lips slightly and inhaling the woods-smell paired with Sturm's leather-and-arousal scent, which was musky and almost tangible on the tip of his tongue. This was not someone he was supposed to be kissing, and the wild insanity of it made his head spin.  
  
Raistlin leaned up against the tree and whimpered softly, and Sturm took the opportunity to thrust his tongue into Raistlin's mouth, lazily stroking and tickling the mage's palate, causing the smaller man to moan helplessly against him. The two broke apart, gasping, and Sturm spread small open- mouthed kisses down Raistlin's throat, tugging at the white robes to expose a pale collarbone. Raistlin made soft little pleading noises and breathed half-coherent encouragement at the Solamnic tracing the hollow of his throat with a hot tongue before moving back up to nibble at Raistlin's bottom lip.  
  
The mage suddenly stiffened and whispered, "Footsteps," rather breathlessly. Sturm groaned and pulled himself away from the quivering form beneath him.  
  
Sure enough, loud footsteps were crunching in their direction.  
  
"Blast," Sturm muttered, tugging Raistlin's robes up to cover several mouth shaped marks that were already purpling. He tried, and failed, to ignore the pang of loss he felt, and concentrated on making himself presentable as the figures of Caramon and Flint became visible between the trees.  
  
"Ahem. I actually found a way to cure him," Sturm said, motioning behind him and pretending he didn't sound pathetic. Raistlin snorted. Caramon grinned at them both.  
  
"I'll just untie the mage now, shall I? You two go on back. I'm terribly sorry that you had to walk all the way back here again."  
  
Flint grunted and turned around, muttering about being too old for this. Caramon smiled again and stood in place. "I don't mind waiting for you," he grinned at his brother.  
  
"Caramon. Go. Now." Raistlin snapped. Caramon looked hurt, his smile faltering and failing on his face. He turned slowly around, heading in the other direction.  
  
Sturm and Raistlin stared at each other.  
  
"Perhaps you might untie me now?" Rastlin said, arching an eyebrow.  
  
Sturm looked startled and nodded quickly, going to work on the ropes. This time, Raistlin managed to hold still.  
  
When he had finished untying the mage, Sturm helped him to his feet like the conscientious knight he was. There was an awkward pause.  
  
Raistlin finally broke it. "Not like 'that' my ass."  
  
"Oh, just shut it." Sturm groaned.  
  
It was a long, quiet walk back to Solace. 


	7. Breaking Apart

A/N: Wheee! I got me a beta! Unfortuantley, Sturms character came up to me twords the end of the chapter, tapped me on the shoulder and threated to punch me right the hell in the face if I didn't start writing him a little bit more IC. So I did, and this has a angsty ending. Then Raistlin in turn demanded HE be IC, and now this little fliclet is looking more and more depressing as I write it. But I still have a new beta!  
  
Special thanks to: Inka Lakhala (my new beta! Squee!)  
  
Raistlin Majere had had quite enough. In the past week he had been shoved against a wall, tied to a tree and just a few minutes ago, shoved against a counter and kissed unexpectedly. All by a self-righteous Solamnic who insisted that he wasn't, in fact, interested. Not, Raistlin fought a blush, that the kisses weren't nice. They certainly felt very nice, but Raistlin simply wasn't inclined to be the pounce-target of a repressed knight. If Sturm was going to keep this up he was damned well going to admit it; Raistlin was very tired of being left flushed and panting and alone, it was an affront to dignity...and damn distracting.  
  
        So Raistlin had made a list in the back of his spellbook. He recorded everything that had happened and why, and he wrote down all the pertinent information (mourning the loss of study time all the while). Then he had carefully taken stock of his situation and been left with one, and only one possible solution. He was going to have to force Brightblade into admitting his attraction by actively becoming a tease. And he was going to have to do it without missing time to read his spellbook.  
  
        The only problem with this plan was that Raistlin had absolutely no clue as to how to bring it into action. Usually it was Raistlin who came up with how to win, and Caramon who used the strategies to bring about their desired results. Raistlin rather had a feeling that asking his twin to seduce the Solamnic would require awkward explanations, and ultimately be a bad idea.  
        So Raistlin proceeded to make another list. Everything he had found himself distracted by, when Caramon's various conquests came over. But none of the things he wrote down seemed helpful, as Raistlin was certain he would look silly in a dress, and rather unwilling to try one on regardless.  
  
        Raistlin sighed in disgust, ripping the wasted pages out of his spellbook. This was too much. He had actually wasted the precious paper on a worthless Solamnic who couldn't keep his hands (and other parts) to himself. His back still hurt from being pressed to the counter, and his lips were swollen. Torn between embarrassment and anger Raistlin resolved to work on the issue later, and buried himself in his studies.  
  
        Raistlin peered around the tree carefully, staring at Flint's house.  
  
        Sturm was in there, alone for a moment. Just like the first time they had, erm, yes.  
  
        Raistlin was going to seduce him.  
  
        He had a mission. He had a strategy.  
  
        He had no clue how to do any of this.  
  
        Before he could lose his nerve, Raistlin took a deep breath and stepped onto the road, walking purposefully towards the door. No! Wrong walk. Raistlin stopped and took another calming breath, doing his best to imitate the swaying walk he had seen used by some of the pretty girls his brother liked to captivate the attention of all males present. It was a great deal more difficult than it looked, keeping your hips moving side to side in such an exaggerated fashion. Raistlin almost overbalanced and tripped, but managed to right himself and get to the door. He stepped inside and heard the small sounds of another person in the room. Gathering his courage he prepared to step around the corner, and caught his foot on a protruding stone.   
()  
Sturm looked up quickly at the sound of a sharp cry, only to have a small figure in disheveled white robes land directly at his feet. He stared, bewildered, into the face of a violently blushing Raistlin Majere.  
  
A Raistlin Majere whose white robes were slipping off one slim shoulder, reveling a slight tan line and unblemished, cream colored skin along an alluring collarbone. The flush the mage wore so well on his cheeks softened the hard angles of his face, and paired with his small stature and delicate build gave him an adorably and wholly misleading look of innocence.  
  
Sturm gulped audibly and attempted to summon up an expression that resembled hostility.  
()  
Raistlin cursed silently and pulled himself up quickly, straightening his robe, completely oblivious to Sturm's small noise of protest. He threw himself against the nearest piece of furniture, attempting to salvage his cool with a sexy nonchalant pose...and promptly slipped, almost falling at the confused and aroused feet of the Solamnic in front of him for a second time.  
  
        But something caught him, something warm and hard and decidedly Sturm- like. Which was good, because it was Sturm, and if had felt un-Sturm-like that would have been strange and worthy of further investigation.  
  
        Raistlin looked up at Sturm, who was looming over him, gripping his upper arms tightly. Raistlin tried a last ditch effort at seduction and looked up at him through his lashes, licking and then biting his lower lip. Sturm's breath caught and he leaned in – just to have Raistlin smoothly disentangle himself and step neatly to the right. Sturm fell forward and bashed into the table, tumbling onto Raistlin, who swore rather violently.  
  
        Things were not, Raistlin thought, going to plan. He was trapped, without a way to escape, under a Solamnic who was eyeing him in a rather predatory manner. It didn't work, being a tease, if you were always caught and kissed. Raistlin decided to give up and regroup... which meant he had to get Brightblade off him, which didn't seem likely. Raistlin smiled weakly at Sturm, and fell back on his usual method of getting out of trouble: complaining.  
  
        "Eheh - Brightblade. How about getting off me? You're, ah, crushing my spine."  
  
        Sturm looked dazed, and nodded - and then didn't move.  
  
        "Oh for - stop this," Raistlin said, shoving rather violently at the form on top of him. Sturm seemed to snap out of his daze and jumped abruptly off Raistlin and to the other side of the room.  
  
"I wasn't doing anything," he said, in a rather panicked tone. "You put a spell on me!"  
  
"Yes, Brightblade, I make all of my most hated enemies pin me down and kiss me. It's traditional for us evil magic folk." Raistlin said, glaring, before marching over and poking Sturm in the chest with one long finger, "Now see here; I'm tired of this. In the past week I've been pinned to a chair, a tree, a counter and now a table because you cannot keep your stupid hands to your moronic self." Raistlin began poking Sturm's chest to emphasize his words. "Fine, but you had better bloody well admit that when you pin me down it's exactly what you want to be doing."  
  
        Sturm opened and then closed his moth with a snap, looking rather gobsmacked. Then he straightened and something that looked remarkably like desperation flashed in his eyes.  
  
        "I can't want you, Majere."  
  
        Raistlin sneered, "Is perfect Brightblade afraid of being attracted to a man? How incredibly precious."  
  
        "It's not quite like that," Sturm said quietly. "I - I believe in nobility and honor. I believe in being moral, and accountable, and respectable. I won't allow myself to be driven by lust and I won't allow myself to participate in something sordid. It's not that I can't love a man, but rather, Majere," Sturm paused and met Raistlin's eyes, "that I can't love you."  
  
        Raistlin stepped back, looking as if he'd been smacked. His cheeks turned a dull angry red and he looked at the floor. "You needn't worry about loving me, Brightblade. I just wanted to remind you to keep your hands to yourself. You might be a pervert, but for all my supposed shortcomings, I am not."  
  
        Turning abruptly on his heel, Raistlin walked quickly out of the house, shutting the door silently behind him. He didn't trip on the way.  
  
He was nearly home by the time he realized he was crying.  
  
A/N: One, Two, Three –AWWW. Poor pitiful little magelet. I do so love torturing him. I was going to have this be pure fluff, but that's gone down the drain now (waves sadly to her happy fuffy ending) I love rejected Raistlin almost as much as I love hopelessly ineffective seducer Raistlin. I read my last chapter, and the descriptions of Raistlin during the kissing scene seem more appropriate adjectives for a gelatinous dessert for all the trembling he was doing...eheh. In honor of that I think the first sex (R rating safe naturally) I write for these two in this timeline will involve pudding. I do hope they have pudding in the Dragonlance universe. 


	8. Promises Kept

"Caramon, wait! Wait fer meeeeee!"  
  
A five-year-old Tika Waylan ran as fast as her chubby legs would carry her after the backs of the retreating almost-grown boys. The one to whom she was calling to towered above the others, and didn't hear (or care) well enough to stop for her. Panting, Tika paused for breath beneath a tree from which there was a clear view of the field where the boys played goblin ball.  
  
She almost didn't notice the thin figure, seated ramrod straight and silent beneath the wide branches. (Caramon's twin brother.)  
  
Although she had seen him walking in town, imperious and foreign in his white robes, she had never been this close to him. He hadn't noticed her yet; his gaze was on the far-off field, eyes feverish and quick in his still face. Tika took a moment to observe him. He looked oddly incongruous, sitting on the dark earth under the lovely tree, as if he didn't fit in so natural and earthy a place, and Tika placed him in an old dusty library drawn from some place in the back of her mind. That was better; he fit in a still image of whispering books and living shadows. Tika shivered a bit, feeling suddenly the intruder in the presence of this boy, who would always belong where she wouldn't and couldn't be.  
  
He must have noticed her, because he spoke then, eyes never leaving the field.  
  
"You'll be too small to play." His voice was low and smooth and his eyes looked large in his face as he turned his head towards her. Tika was sure that it was her imagination, but for a moment they seemed to flash gold. "They won't wait up for someone as small and useless as you."  
  
"U-ummm." Tika didn't like this boy who didn't fit. His voice and eyes were too pretty, and they both said such ugly things. He smiled slightly, looking cruelly pleased at her stuttered response, and Tika straightened herself, taking a defiant breath and gathering her wits to face this odd human-shaped monster. The place where he fit in the dark library wouldn't leave, and seemed to hover around the boy and the tree in the edges of her vision, making him even more imposing. But the flash of white lace and laughter came also to her mind, easily from the front of her thoughts. More like memory than fantasy, Tika held the perfect future image in her mind, running mental fingers over the dream as if it were the favorite blanket that she had laid aside last year. She wasn't ever going to be an elf princess or slay a dragon, but she would make this dream come true. She would marry Caramon, and something in her five-year-old mind knew she was going to have to convince his brother before she could convince anyone else.  
  
"Will they not wait for you either, then?" She asked. The boy's expression soured.  
  
"If I asked, Caramon would." (Not like you). Hung between them. The sentiment behind the statement was vaguely unkind in a way that Tika didn't quite understand. This was why she liked Caramon, and why she didn't like his strange brother, though she would never say so. Caramon was so easy to play with, understand and love, and he was never ever vague or discreetly unkind. Honest and sweet, and so much better than this stranger beneath the tree.  
  
"Then do you mind if I sit with you; if they won't wait for me, I mean," Tika said, doing her best to sound as if she was mature, and very much the equal of someone who was almost grown up. The boy, (Raistlin), Tika mentally berated herself, looked surprised before he smiled in that same uncomfortable way. He motioned with a graceful inclination of his head to the ground beside him, a place between him and his spellbooks just large enough for a small girl. Tika wondered briefly if this boy had ever been a small child like her, and somehow doubted it, unable to picture anywhere in the vast library in which he belonged that he had ever been too small to reach. She had that obscure gut feeling that Father had told her always to trust. (Don't sit down). She sat down anyway.  
  
Tika regarded Raistlin very solemnly, looking up at his face with hooded eyes. She decided it was best to be direct.  
  
"I'm going to marry Caramon Majere."  
  
His eyes widened and he looked very angry for a moment, though his face didn't change. Then he threw back his head and laughed. It sounded ugly in his smooth voice. He looked back down at her, his face contorted in a snarl, and spoke very rapidly, biting off his words as if they were foul rather than saying them.  
  
"Do you really think, little girl, that he could ever love you more than he loves me? Would you, a child so pathetically ordinary it will never occur to you to dream of being more than a tavern wench, pit yourself against me as rival for the affections of someone whom I already own?"  
  
Tika was momentarily thrown at the abrupt change in his disposition. She almost didn't hear what he said, shocked at his tone and appearance. Regaining her equilibrium, she took a moment to digest what he had said.  
  
She didn't know exactly what he meant, but she knew he was arguing with her. Tika looked up into those pretty, bitter, older-than-their-years eyes, watching them widen. Not many people would look this strange boy full in the face either. She repeated what she knew was true. "I'm going to marry Caramon Majere."  
  
The cruel smile was back, and the strange boy leaned in close. For a fleeting, panicked moment Tika thought her might kiss her, but his mouth ended up pressed almost to her ear, hot breath a caress that made her shiver slightly. (I never imagined any bit of him could be warm.) He whispered softly against her skin, and Tika more felt than heard each word in a faint puff of breath.  
  
"You can try all your life, little girl, but you'll never have him. No matter how much you love, no matter what you give, you'll only hold his gaze for a moment before his eyes turn to me. You might have his cock-"the mage paused at this word that Tika had heard the nasty village boys use to shock the village girls. He seemed to savor it, and Tika felt him smile against the small shell of her ear, "-but his soul will always be mine. You'll find no room for yourself in either. You will have him when I say so, and even then you'll only have my pale little cast-off. He'll whine and bawl for me. Because that's what you deserve, you and everyone else in this heap of a town, you don't have the brains to dream of anything better than my idiot brother; you don't have the capacity to imagine that anything might be better than an easygoing simpleton. That's exactly what you'll get. And when you get it, it will be as bitter as your fading, pointless life, because it will have been, and it will still be, mine, even when I no longer want it. That will be your future, little girl, if you try to take the place that rightfully belongs to me."  
  
The mage drew back, looking vicious and satisfied. Tika looked at his thin, sharp face and those pretty eyes. She felt pity for this sad boy, who hated so much that he had resolved to break the only one who would love him, simply because he could. She pitied him, but not enough; she was sorry, but not sorry enough for it to be all right for this ugly boy to break such a good, true thing. (There are so few true things forged in the fires of this world.)Hatred swelled deep and dark in Tika, and it must have shown in her eyes because the boy gave her his tight, cruel smile, daring her to contest his claim to Caramon. Tika couldn't, and she didn't care.  
  
Trembling, Tika rose to her feet. (You will not do this thing.)  
  
"You know the difference between me and you, Raistlin Majere?" Tika's own eyes shown over-bright in her face with unshed, angry tears. "The difference between us two is that I'm going to go play goblin ball with the boys now. I'm going to be too small and no-one is going to want to pass to me, and I know it, but I'll be near Caramon, and even when I'm too weak and little to be of use, I won't be weak enough to sit on the sidelines and sulk like a big, nasty, bullying creep. And someday Caramon is gonna notice it."  
  
Tika bent low next to his ear, imitating the mage as best she could, and breathed "Break him all you like, I'll be waiting patiently to make him whole again."  
  
Tika then turned abruptly and did her best five-year-old impression of storming off. She didn't turn around and look back even when she heard the sharp hiss of anger. Her eyes were ahead of her, looking out at the field where an almost-grown boy scored at goblin ball. She smiled. 


End file.
